Ella Veyes

Breathe
A bleeding secret.
Want
But never keep it.
...

Scorched white by the lowly hung sun,
Crouched underneath the low ceiling sky.
Could burn his fingerprints right off,
Could be his last underground loft.
...

Be there more beauty held in one’s own eye
When God has taken the colour from the sky?
Should we flutter in light, a shade with no name,
‘Til we’re burnt by love - like a Moth and Flame?
...

Can’t document this destiny
the buzz, the bug, it pulled the plug)
This time piece doesn’t fit in me.
...

Soft. Breathing gentle warmth of light. Possibilities, for you and I.
Can we dream. Let us dream. Don’t burn a tomorrow that outshines yesterday,
If you want to believe, believe.
Live if you breathe, for breathing, you live. Glass skies, they shatter when we part;
...

Unfaithful wind,
Carry pieces of a journey, salvaged promise of a fate,
Oh Soulless Sun,
An eternity from time, proof unreliable of late,
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Back and forth, forth and back,
Feedback from a different track.
Subliminal insanity, this feels like home to me
...

Someone wearing the same socks as you
on the tube.
What is that?
Is that missing you?
...

not everything, just anything,
but this.
dead wires, empty light bulbs,
don't fix.
...

Which God of yours has taken my sky?
The Night has won - The pawn must die.
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Could you step outside of heaven.
Shield your eyes and look at me.
I wouldn’t paint you any sorrow.
I never dream of destiny.
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The complex of dysphoria,
Just keep on defining death.
Can you show me where hurts worse?
Are you still dreaming in reverse?
...

He is my scars.
Every day a new entry.
Maybe it’s the dream I love, the unattainable dream,
And not the reality.
...

From heaven came a song once heard
By poets bleak, by prophets worn.
Though be it poignant, eloquent,
It took their souls from which ‘twas born.
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My lips.
Always cracked.
For my mind,
Not my word.
...

In a womb of ashes,
Is a stillborn Phoenix.
And when the birds flew south,
They flew straight out of your mouth.
...

Purple veins under my eyelids,
Thought they were bugs born of my brain.
Push them in to read the press print;
Some bibled book found on a train.
...

A caesura of music; a deep and wordless song,
When the pulse falters
Inside sorrow spun too long.
A music made of colour – chords of red and gold.
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The belly of the watchful:
Lays an acid frozen lake.
No fires in the iris flame,
So to blink and bring the quake.
...

A slipping sonata of screams,
The breaking breeze of boiling blood,
An over-worked opus of odium,
Endure it all, to the very seams,
...